


y ahora (no) estoy aquí

by rjtonamen



Series: (not) a trilogy [2]
Category: La Mejor Versión de Mi (Music Video)
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Exes, F/M, Inspired by Music, Music, Musicians, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Prequel, Puerto Rico
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 05:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18424032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rjtonamen/pseuds/rjtonamen
Summary: The story of her last relationship, and all that went wrong.





	y ahora (no) estoy aquí

**Author's Note:**

> [spotify playlist here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0N6y6W8zuPJqdd2UafQLDc)

I didn’t meet him through work.

Some of my friends actually didn’t believe me when I first told them that -- I meet everyone through work -- but it’s true. He was a friend of my cousin’s. Still is, I guess. Back then, that was all I needed. I still trusted my family back then.

I met him just after I moved back to Dallas from LA. I didn’t have many local friends anymore, and my sister and my cousin must have been sick of me tagging along with them all the time. “You need a boyfriend,” my cousin said, and that was that.

We called him A.

Our first date was weird. I don’t even know if you could call it a proper date, since my cousin was there, but later it’s what we considered our first date. Dinner and a movie, of course, and drinks afterward with just enough conversation that I walked away feeling pleasantly warm, even though I hadn’t learned a thing about A.

On our second date, he took me to the art museum and listened to me gush about my favorite artists, and that was it. I was head-over-heels.

He kissed me for the first time after that second date. It was clear he wanted more. That was the first and last time I successfully said no to him.

After the third date, dinner again, he took me back to his apartment. He was sweet and gentle and, even that early on, loving. He told me how beautiful I was. He kissed me slowly. And the rest… well, to borrow a phrase from another author: if you can’t figure out what happened next, you’re not paying attention.

* * *

I hadn’t dated much -- slept around plenty, yeah, but not dated much. I liked the attention. I didn’t think it was weird when he told me he loved me on the fifth date. I loved him too, or I thought I did. He was so kind, gentlemanly even, but not in the showy gotta-impress-my-girlfriend way. He held my hand. He dropped tiny compliments, on me and on friends and on strangers. He tipped well.

The little things that bothered me, like how he never took his hat off indoors or how he occasionally told jokes that weren’t _quite_ racist but felt wrong, didn’t bother me enough, I guess.

We moved in together six months later. I worried about telling my family. I thought they’d disapprove, since it hadn’t been very long, but I was wrong. They were thrilled. Over the moon. More head-over-heels than I was. I saw my mother and my aunt share one of those creepy twin glances, where they told a whole story of friendship between me and my cousin, positive influence on my sister, and adding a new generation to the family, all without saying a word.

I read it all, and squeezed A’s hand, and wondered what he was thinking.

I never knew what he was thinking.

* * *

Maybe a week passed between move-in day and the first time I caught him looking through my phone. He had a good excuse; I’d forgotten it in my hurry to leave for work, and when I came back for it midmorning, it was in his hand. He told me he was looking for my work number, or the number of a coworker, to let me know that I’d forgotten it.

I didn’t think to question why he couldn’t call the studio from his own phone. I also didn’t think to question why _he_ wasn’t at work. The questions came later, but by then, it was too late to ask, so I didn’t bother. I didn’t even bother wondering.

The next night, as we were lying in bed, close, A’s arms around me, he asked, “Will you do something for me, baby?”

I’d do anything for him. I told him so.

He told me he didn’t like how often I talked to some of my male friends. He tried to play it off like a quirk, like his own little personal insecurity, like almost a joke, but something in me knew that he was serious. He knew I would never do anything, he said, but it would make him feel better if I just talked to the guys a little less.

“I want you to be only mine,” he said.

I agreed. Like I said, I’d do anything for him.

I didn’t cut them off right away; I didn’t want them to worry. I slowly faded out over the course of a month or so, before finally showing him that I’d deleted the numbers of my four closest friends, plus eight or ten more. A looked happier, more in love with me, than he ever had. I lived for that look. I didn’t try to say no to him that night.

At least I still had my best friend, and through her, a tenuous connection to the ones I’d abandoned.

Until another month later, when my sister asked if I was going to Pride that year, and he asked why I’d want to go to Pride, and my sister outed me. And there went the female friends from my phone. The only contacts allowed after that were coworkers and family. And A, of course.

I think -- I have to think -- that A was more angry about the fact that I hadn’t told him than he was about my sexuality. I don’t know why I didn’t tell him; maybe I thought it didn’t matter, or maybe, deep down, I already knew.

But the first time he hurt me, I convinced myself it was an accident.

And the second time he hurt me, I convinced myself that it was an accident.

And the third time he hurt me, I convinced myself that I deserved it.

* * *

Once, at a party, I found myself talking to a friend of A’s whom I’d never met. They worked together, I think, but I can’t remember now; we weren’t talking about anything memorable. But then -- I don’t know, I guess we’d had one too many drinks, or maybe he was already a creep, or maybe I was unconsciously flirting, but he laid his hand on my thigh while we talked.

Of course I brushed him off right away, but not before A saw. He was at my side in a blink. I thought he was going to tell his friend off, but somehow I wasn’t surprised when he grabbed my arm instead and dragged me away.

He shook with anger. Literally, he looked like he was vibrating. He held me in his favorite spot, the upper part of my forearm just below the elbow, where he could squeeze and it would hurt, but the bruises would be covered by the half-rolled sleeves of the shirts I preferred.

Still prefer. Some things haven’t changed.

Anyway, he held me there like he always did, and his face turned red, and I knew better by that point than to try to explain. He’d drawn his conclusions already, and he was never, never wrong. He had to remind me that I was his, and no one else’s.

That was the first time I tried to leave. When we got home, he said something about not knowing whether he could trust me, and I said he didn’t have to trust me, and I threw some clothes into a bag and stormed out. I spent the night at my parents’ house, where I answered roughly nine hundred questions about the relationship and listened to roughly nine thousand reasons why I should forgive him. My family loved him.

Still love him, I’m sure. That probably hasn’t changed either.

The next morning, when he showed up on the front porch with a bouquet of my favorite flowers in his hand and an apology on his lips, I forgave him.

* * *

We’d been together about a year and a half when he took me out to a fancy restaurant and told me he had a big question for me.

I was so sure he was going to propose. All the friends I still had in my head, the ones I couldn’t talk to anymore in real life, preemptively congratulated me a là the Greek Chorus from Legally Blonde. I picked the perfect dress, did my hair just right, covered up the latest bruise with more care than usual just in case there were photos. I wondered what kind of ring he’d chosen, and whether he remembered my aversion to diamonds.

Over dessert, he took my hand, and my eyes started filling with tears. He was giving me that look again, the you’re-the-one look, the head-over-heels look.

And then he asked whether I’d move to Puerto Rico with him.

The “yes” was already halfway out before the question reached my ears, and I couldn’t call it back. He looked surprised, like he thought he’d have to convince me, like he expected me to argue or push back.

As if I _ever_ argued or pushed back.

He’d gotten a job offer, he said, and a nice one. More money. A better title. A house, paid for by the company, barely a mile from the beach, plus a relocation bonus. “That’s the kind of thing they offer you when you’re the best at your job,” A said, and it somehow sounded almost self-deprecating. “I’m not a fan of the beach, but I think we can make do.”

Of course I agreed. I’d already said yes. And he didn’t like the beach, but I did. I do. I said yes.

* * *

Here’s the thing: I was also the best at my job. _Am_ the best at my job. Even in my cutthroat industry, with my résumé and references, finding a position at a studio on the tiny island known for its music was a breeze. Suddenly I was excited about the move, too; a new job in a new place with the person I loved most.

When I told him about my job offer, he congratulated me, but -- to borrow a cliché -- his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Looking back, I think he was hoping I’d stay home when we got to the island, that I’d be even more _his_ than I already was. He said I didn’t have to work, since the house was already paid for and his salary was so high, but I couldn’t not work. My work was -- my work _is_ who I am.

That was the only argument I ever won. I worked.

* * *

Things did not get better after the move. Things got worse.

Already semi-fluent from years of school, I picked up Spanish quickly. He struggled. I often had to translate when we went out, which irritated him to no end. He started correcting my grammar when I spoke to him in English, nitpicking tiny mistakes that no one else would have noticed.

Sometimes, if he suspected that I was talking about him in Spanish -- I never was -- he’d grab my arm and squeeze until I switched to English, even if the person I was talking to didn’t understand a word.

The studio often kept me late, artists too _in the zone_ to stop recording just because the clock said five, or six, or ten. A started accusing me of cheating. The later I stayed at work, the rougher he would be in bed that night.

And he was rough every night. Only half my bruises came from his anger.

* * *

He cut me once. I’ve tried everything to get rid of this scar, but I guess I’ll never be rid of him entirely. He only made me bleed twice; I’ll get to the second time in a minute, though you may already know that story.

The first one I still genuinely believe was an accident. Usually, if he slapped me or grabbed a little too hard or knocked me into a wall, he’d apologize the next morning, with flowers or chocolate or a new piece of jewelry, depending on the injury. But as soon as he saw the blood -- both times -- his anger drained out of him immediately like he was the one who had been punctured.

My first mistake was approaching him while he was cooking. I said something that was meant to be a joke, and it landed a little wrong, and he turned around a little too fast, and I was standing a little too close.

If he’d hit me two inches higher, I would have lost my eye. If he’d hit me with his fist, it would have shattered my cheekbone.

As it was, the pain was so sudden and so sharp that I hardly felt it. I watched his face untwist as fear replaced the rage. I think it was fear, at least. He dropped the knife and embraced me, and I was too stunned to flinch away. The world tilted, then righted itself. My vision went blurry.

When he stepped back, there was blood on his shirt, and for a brief, delirious moment, I thought _I’d_ hurt _him._ Then I felt the warm wetness on my cheek, and I don’t remember too much after that.

I remember that it needed stitches, but he refused to take me to the hospital. He said he could handle it. He laid me down on the couch and cleaned it and taped it. He was pretty good at first aid, actually. His hands were so gentle. When he wanted them to be.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he kept whispering, and “it was an accident.” It wasn’t until later that he added, “Maybe you should think before you speak next time.”

In case anyone asked, I invented an elaborate story of trying to hang a mirror and having it shatter in my hands, a piece flying out and slicing my face. But no one ever asked.

* * *

A week or so after the knife incident, I met B. You already know that story.

A hated him instantly, even though they didn’t meet until later. He’d get even angrier on the days I had to work late with B, and that one spot on my forearm was soon made up of endless layers of bruises. I was stiff and achy all the time, like an old woman. I started to think again about leaving.

And then B said to me, _si me necesitas, sabes donde encontrarme,_ and leaving seemed possible.

My life turned into a seemingly-endless self-feeding cycle. Reluctant to go home, I’d invent reasons to stay longer at work, B often staying with me even if his recording was done. I’d come home late, accept my punishment, and repeat it all the next day.

I only had doubts on the weekends. A took me to the beach, even though he hated the sand and sun. He took me to shows. He walked with me in the streets, holding my hand, and kissed me gently and told me he loved me. And I said it back, because on those days, it was true.

I still packed a bag. You know this part of the story, too.

The second time he made me bleed was the last time he physically hurt me. That was the day I left, though the circumstances weren’t quite what I’d planned. I left on foot, came back in his car, and left again in an ambulance. He left, too, in the back of a police car.

I don’t know how A found me there, in the coffee shop parking lot halfway between the house and the studio, crying and waiting for B, but he did. Maybe he was tracking my phone. He was silent as he drove us back to the house. Eerily silent. I never had any idea what he was thinking.

He stayed silent even when the front door closed behind us. My heart was in my throat, but he had to know I would follow him into the bedroom, and I did. He shut the bedroom door, too. I don’t know why.

He stayed silent when he grabbed me around the throat -- the first and last time he did that -- and slammed me against the wall. I don’t think he even noticed when a picture frame leapt off the wall and cracked on the floor from the impact. Barely a second passed before the darkness started creeping in at the edges of my vision. I was conscious only of his eyes, his hand, and the inexplicably sharp pain in the back of my head.

I was silent, too.

The first thing he said, as he started to undress me one-handed, was, “I guess I have to remind you again that you’re mine.”

I wasn’t even afraid. If I had been able to speak, I know what I would have said: I’m not yours or anyone’s. It played on loop in my head, even as the darkness grew and other sounds faded. I am mine alone.

I’m not sure what stopped him. Maybe he saw the blood in my hair, or maybe there was something in my eyes, but he stopped. Again, I saw his face change, the second time I ever saw that look of fear, or whatever it was.

He let me go, and I fell to the floor. I remember him fixing both our clothes before calling 911. I remember the softness in his eyes, and the softness of his hand on my cheek, and the softness of his voice saying “I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry.”

That was the last time he hurt me.

* * *

I live with B now. It’s weird; it was supposed to be temporary, but every day that passes makes it feel more permanent. I let him kiss me, and then I kissed him, and then we traveled together, and now we’re talking about our future together.

I haven’t told him everything that I’ve written down here. I’ve told him most of it, and he was there for some of it. But we’re taking it slow, like we do with everything else, and he’s letting the story trickle out of me a line at a time. Maybe someday I’ll tell it all, let him read this and fill in the gaps and confess the things I couldn’t even write.

I’ve started talking to my friends again. We didn’t quite pick up like we’d never been apart, but close. I gave them what I call the “lite” version of this story, and that was enough. I’ve missed so much of their lives, too, but I’m slowly catching up.

And finally, what B and I say to each other like a mantra feels true, truer than all the times we’ve said it before: yo soy solo de mi.

-E


End file.
